


you're (a monster) like me

by chloebaeprice



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Cannibalism, F/M, M/M, Necrophilia, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chloebaeprice/pseuds/chloebaeprice
Summary: He leaves his latest victim behind more determined than ever to return to Neverland. Storybrooke would never be his home. 
It’s not enough. He would never be enough.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is an AU exploring the idea of what could've happened if malcolm had taken rumple to neverland with him. after growing up in neverland, rumple is sent to a storybrooke long before emma shows up. everyone is cursed, including people who weren't cursed in season 1 of OUAT like hook & belle. 
> 
> keep in mind, this version of rumple (& belle) is very different from canon.
> 
> this story isn't in chronological order or consistent with the timeline. the circumstances & context for a scene might be confusing to figure out. all of it was intended & made ambiguous on purpose.

//

'we do not become monsters  
because evil is a stagnant state of existence.

sometimes we have the innate ability  
to walk among shadows and other dark places  
because they see similarities in us  
that neither priests nor prayers could pluck out.  
sometimes we make choices that only pan out  
because we are capable of enjoying them.

if we are monsters then we have always been monsters–  
simply hiding and wearing masks.'

\- 'nature vs nurture'

//

His jaw shines gold; teeth speckled with blood, sharp and shining. He knows those eyes of his, dark with shadows, is enough to make one’s bones tremble and shake, oh-so-fragile enough to quake. Moonlight fractures upon the slope of his skin, yet rests gently upon his shoulders, white light pooling at his feet like liquid. The crunching of bones rattles inside his mouth.

_Open, close, chew. Open, close, chew. Open—_

_It’s not polite to eat with your mouth open, son_.

He makes sure to gulp down blood to wash the bones down—the ones that come from ripping bodies open, a cavern split and etched onto soft, weak flesh.  
  
//

Neverland makes him swallow darkness, choke on it—then spit it back up, swallow it again like a good boy. _Be a good boy for me_ , the trees whisper, as seductive and inviting as Papa’s mouth. Let it drive through his veins. Let it happen because he’s a good boy. _You are my good boy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?_

He learned to hide his cries from Papa on night six. He was nine when Papa brought him to Neverland. But now he knows there’s no reason to cry since he’s grown to love Papa even more for it. Papa loved him even when he made it clear he hated his Papa in a way no son should. Papa never once condemned him for being selfish and taking his love for granted. Papa spent more time with him than any of his brothers. Papa taught him how to fight, gave him pleasure and comfort. It would do him no good to wonder what not growing up in Neverland would’ve been like.

All he needs is Papa, he tells himself as Papa drags his mouth down his back.  
  
//

Papa asks if he’s a good boy, questions his loyalty as a prince, holds him as hard as he likes and what does he say in return?

Yes.

_I’m sorry. I’m a good boy, please, be inside me. I’m good._  
  
//

He’s filthy for wanting what Papa did for him. He’s not a good boy for lying to Papa that he didn’t want it. He was selfish for wanting that from Papa and he’s just grateful that Papa was generous enough to give him what he wanted anyway. Good boys aren’t supposed to want that, he knows. He’s glad Papa accepted it, instead of punishing him for being bad. It’s wrong, what he desires but Papa takes care of him. Papa helps him with it.

So why does his stomach clench tightly when he thinks about it? Why does he feel numb and not as excited as Papa when it happens? If papa does it to him, for him, then it can’t be wrong. He should stop being so ungrateful. He needs this.

He feels guilty for not enjoying it like he should when Papa graciously gives him what he wanted all along, but at least he knows it makes Papa happy by doing it with him. Besides, sometimes it feels good too, like when Papa goes slower and gentler. It’s better on the days he’s not angry. He takes whatever Papa has to give him.  
  
//

He wears rough-sewn clothes like armor, lets the forest be his castle and a cliff his throne. The pliable flesh of his lips is bitten and bloody from nerves and boredom. His eyes, ridden with darkening bruises and rich soil in their depths, stare up at moon in wonder. His hair, like muddy roots, frames his face limply.

Let them call him lost. _Let them_. A lost boy is not the same as being a good boy. He hasn’t been lost since Papa gave him the honor of taking him to Neverland as his beloved son and protecting him from the dangers of the world. His Papa loves and treats him better than anyone else. There are mountains underneath his chest, their edges tearing from the surface. He suspects his heart is as black as the sky always is. He calls his own body destruction.  
  
//

Cruelty is always necessary; Papa taught him that. He was lucky to be taught that at an early age instead of remaining a fool. Him and his brothers, the ones they call lost, all fit in the palm of Papa’s hand. Papa holds him and he needs him so much. He always holds him closer, harder than the others. He loves Papa more for that alone.  

Papa likes to clench his bare, sweat-soaked skin with his teeth. He can tell because Papa moves inside him harder when he does that and he can only whimper prettily for him. Papa only does this for him. He knows that because Papa told him. He pleads and cries for release, his and Papa’s, his nails digging sharp. He wraps himself around Papa the harsher he gets and begs for mercy once more. Papa acquiesces at last with a roar to the consuming darkness around them. He feels sticky and hurt between his legs and his face is resting on dirt and still he says _thank you_.  
  
//

He realizes one of his brothers gets too much affection from Papa, the attention he deserves. All it takes is leading the boy to the edge of a cliff with jagged rocks below. Then the punches come before pushing him so he falls to his fate. He got what was coming to him.

When he tells Papa, he smiles. And with blood on his hands, he smiles back. He’s called _good boy_ and his hands are licked until they’re clean. He’s kissed fervently and tastes copper on his tongue. He shares his Papa’s violence and cleverness with pride.

When Papa enters him, for the first time he feels no pain, only love.  
  
//

He wonders if other people think it is normal to feel guilt when you take a life.

But now in Storybrooke, as he’s carving out the chest from a body so he may drink from its pit, he only feels happiness for being a good boy. It makes him want to bask in the moonlight back in Neverland and lay underneath it for eternity.

He waits to feel the remorse others expect from him and it never comes.

He’s happy and he hopes Papa is too.

Neverland corrupts and he’s wanted nothing more than to let it happen to him.

And it has. And it does.  
  
//

_Have this throat of mine and slice carefully_ , he wants to say to Belle, as well as: _squeeze and never let up_.

She would be gentler with him, loving in a way Papa loathed to express. She would make falling apart in her arms worth it. Maybe he would stop aching so much. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel Papa’s heavy gaze on him through closed eyes.

He wants to feel clean again—he wants Belle to be the one to wash him, scrub at grimy skin until she reveals the pink, gleaming film beneath.  
  
//

_What’s wrong with you?_ Belle snarls after her slap comes. She’s walking away before his face crumbles and his body turns to ash.

_I don’t know_ , is stuck in his throat, clenched up like a rope tied around his neck. Too tight, the knot too complicated for him to release the pressure. _I don’t know why I’m wrong_. The rope is starting to feel like a noose.

_What’s wrong_? He would like to know too. Everyone always leaves him in the end.  
  
//

His shoulder stings when Belle bites down. The sky bleeds dark orange as the sun sinks. Shadows sink inside along with it.

Her nails are knives holding onto his shoulders that night. She smiles beneath him, a pretty thing and he whispers w _ould you let me kill you?_ He punctuates the utterance with his hips, as brutal as his words. A white-hot spark melts in his stomach, his thrusts turning sloppy and quick, losing any steady rhythm.

When Belle lifted her hips to his and said _oh_ _yes_ , he fucked harsher into her, pressing her down on the bed, a sudden need to be vicious. She laughed as sunlight faded away.

His hands left scattered bruises, her neck bearing the darkest of his marks. He sucked upon her skin, licked her slick flesh until the temptation to sink his teeth in and devour her abated. There was no use in killing someone as ripe for the taking as her.

That night, no matter what he did to her, he couldn’t feel satisfied. All the while she smiled and laughed at him.

//

When Papa pushed him down into a swirling tunnel of green, something inside him broke. Papa told him it was for the best, that he had a purpose in a realm called Storybrooke. Still, he felt betrayed and yearned to keep being Papa’s prince, to stay as his bloodthirsty son, ruling by his side. That kind of power was addictive and he never wanted it to fall out of his grasp.

It would be only fitting that to come back to Neverland, dethrone papa, take his role as Peter Pan and make it his own. He could wear Papa’s crown of greed and cruelty, make his brothers obey his every command. But they’d have to earn it first, so he’d make them beg for it, degrade themselves for his affection and his alone.

Papa would never see it coming, not from his little obedient son  
  
//

He doesn’t wait for the man in leather to stop struggling before he’s at his throat and biting down. His teeth dig into bone and the flesh gives way. The man goes limp and he knows his pulse must have stopped beating from the onslaught.

After sucking the blood gushing to the surface, in a haze he throws his head back, ripping bloody chunks out of the throat as he does so, trapped inside the grip of his teeth.

Papa told him to avoid going hungry, that keeping a full belly will give him an edge over the too thin bodies of his brothers.

Swallowing the globs of flesh, he smiles copper-stained lips at the clock tower above him.

Peace settles in his gut. Papa would be proud, he thinks.

_Good boy, good boy, good boy_.  
  
//

“It must’ve been someone angry with him. He could’ve been innocently walking in the street and the killer got angry with him for some reason. They fought over something, maybe. There’s always a reason behind murder.”

The catastrophic nature of his bloodlust; pearly and shining organs carved out of chests, slurped up by his greedy, jagged mouth. White teeth flash in a grim smile at the thought, contrasting with his chapped, dry lips and hard obsidian eyes.

A hunger like no other pours inside his bloodstream. In a cloudy haze, he sweeps his arm up to gesture at the leather-clad body lying at their feet in a pool of intestines and blood, ripped apart. His palm up, he presents the corpse with a malevolent and theatrical air, as if the sheriff was a spectator and he the performer. As he focuses on the air he breathes, he finds himself wavering, uncertain, eyes fixed on his hand and wrist. Upon meeting the confused eyes of the sheriff, the dark fantasy eludes him, his wish to harm those around him, to harm David, vanishing as he becomes aware of color and sound. A pause, before he lowers his arm, cowered by the realization he almost lost control.

The world seems too bright all of a sudden. Every sound, however miniscule, is jarring to his ears. Every nerve ending feels raw, exposed.

David, the fool that he is, he thinks vehemently, dismisses his grand display with nothing more than a shrug and declares that, “We need to find the person who did this.” He agrees only to urge him to leave and he does, mentioning that he will ask around to find potential witnesses.

Only when David disappears out of sight into Granny’s diner does he stare at his victim once more. Satisfaction that his hunger for violence has been sated curls in his belly. While he’s eager to tear into people’s throats, he must calm himself if he wishes to remain unsuspecting and innocent.

//

He meets Belle’s hooded eyes and she spits, cruel, “Did you like it, fucking your own father?”

His groan rips out of him, pained and tortuous. There’s no way to mistake it for one of pleasure. Belle moves faster over him. He hates the way his skin crawls.

(He was empty and whole when Papa urged him to the ground and he let Papa do what he wished. He kept begging for Papa to love him the only way he knew how. Later in the night, when Papa left his body wrung out, he asked Papa to hold him and there was relief when Papa’s skin pressed against his.)

He jerks up into her, gasping, _please_ , not wanting this to last any longer. He wants everything to end now.

When Belle closes his bedroom door, he’s left in crumpled bed sheets, numb.

Closing his eyes, he breathes.

//

His hips buck into the cradle of her hips.

Chuckling, he wonders if all it takes to finding salvation is being connected to the body of another. As Belle presses him into the mattress, his thrusts turn sharp and fast against her. His heart flutters with longing, back sticky with sweat from her ministrations. His cock was a knife she was dropping onto, eager, spreading herself open with him buried to the hilt inside her. She was pulling him in and scrabbling over him, his cock rubbing inside her pink flushed cunt. As Belle tightened around him with desperate fervor, he ached with the thought of taking his time with her. He would grasp her, pulling her down till she lay flat on his chest, face on his shoulder. Then he would draw out his thrusts, slowing until she begged for him to please her. Only then would he comply, raising his knees and fucking up into her hard with her squirming above him. He wanted so very much to make her beg.

He had a heart of decay. If only her heart would melt into his, a searing chest wound atop him. Her conviction, all blue fire and marble, could drown and burn him all at once. She could cut herself on him if not careful. He imagined feeling her blood pooling on his chest, her tongue lapping at it. Warmth flood floods his veins. His body sinks into the bed, waiting for completion as Belle moves atop him. Her bite on his chest stings and when he comes, she milks him for all he’s worth as he jerks helplessly, howling. His skin screams for salvation, the deep ache in his stomach eliciting a gasp from his lethargic body.

//

He let papa have his mouth on his knees. His knees go numb while Papa fucks inside of it. His lips are closed around Papa’s cock as he rubs against his tongue. When he looks up at him, Papa slams in faster and smiles.

Papa grips his skull to hold him in place as he chokes him with indulgence. He pushes into his throat sloppily and mercilessly, without his comfort or pleasure in mind. He gags but doesn’t struggle, eyes watering. _Good baby boy,_ Papa says. Desire licks in his belly, ramming, forceful thrusts opening up his mouth for him. His lips feel stretched and tender, raw and bruised from the rough treatment.

_He’s a good boy_. Not lost, not when he reigns by Papa’s side and Papa’s always pleased with his behavior. He belongs to Papa so he’ll never be lost. Allowing himself to be degraded for praise and affection causes a burning ache between his legs. Without any friction to find relief, he has to settle for Papa’s leg, grinding against it for pressure. Papa only tightens his hold on the back of his head, tugging at his hair and grunting, smirking all the while.

When Papa’s satisfied he rests on the ground, panting and left aching in mud-stained pants with saliva and semen on his face. Papa is his king and Neverland is their kingdom.

//

“What are you doing, son?” Papa rasped, voice spitting venom in a warning. He splutters out a laugh, face bearing no remorse and Papa snarls, face contorting to reveal the monster that he is. All of papa’s charms and affection no longer exist, only ugliness. His resistance and showing of his true nature makes him fuck Papa harder, forcing him to take it, seeking his pleasure selfishly like he had done all those years ago. He’s tightly wound, spread too thin. He can’t let Papa have any hold over him anymore. Not like this, never again.

Resentment festered during his time in Neverland. His hips were always stained with bruises. Anger thundered in his throat, pulse a stinging flesh wound as his need to make Papa bleed grew. His wretched glory swells with his laugh, maniac and proud.

Closing his fingers around the handle, he stabbed his knife into Papa’s neck. Blood squirted out, spraying the blade and his hand. Papa’s lust and demand for obedience had condemned him since the day he was born.

And so when Papa wheezed and fought him, it was in vain. Papa died under him. Still, he continued moving inside him, brutalizing Papa’s limp body again and again.

It was only until he noticed that Papa was hard that he came, shaking.

//

He wants filth and dirt, wants to lick it off Belle and suck; her skin salty with sweat, dragging his tongue down her back. He clenches from the need of it, resting hot and heavy in him. He wants to slide in her cunt while its slick with blood, take her while she’s sopping wet.

Hurting someone for his own pleasure, it doesn’t get much better than that. He desires for so much, so when does it become too much and he explodes? He aches from it, head buzzing and crackling with hollowness, so much so it feels as if he should splinter from the crackling tension, cave in under the pressure.

His mind is static.

Aberration comes as a melancholic sentiment shivering across his skin. Then it buries in his chest, sinking forevermore.

He was not meant to live, monstrous creature that he is. Papa could have killed him, if he wished it. He knows that much, if nothing else. There is something comforting in knowing you’re doomed from the start.

He’s split open, head echoing with the battle cry ripped from his mouth. His jaw is heavy, laden with jagged stones. He might very well collapse under the weight of black, pitiless stars. He wanted to pull out his plump of a heart, its soft beating growing sticky in his palm so he stops feeling ashamed for existing. His tears sting, he wonders why as his eyes close to a full night sky.

//

His teeth glint crimson. He has no throne to sit upon like he did in Neverland. No matter, he still deserves the title prince, or as Papa called him whilst inside him, _my prince_.

Storybrooke will be fun, he knows that much.

He is midnight waves slamming against the deck of an already worn ship. His lips wretch with a snarl. Now is not the time to be calm and patient.

A web of lethargy sinks him deep in perilous depths. Soon, he will drown, his lungs brimming with salt.

Gold floats in his lungs. He never wants to feel cold silver puncture and ache inside him ever again. His vision flashes sepia momentarily, burning out upon the closing of his eyes.

“Careful, sweetheart.” Cautiously sweet, honey drips from his lips. He’s bound and lusting with darkened, swimming irises. He is hers for the taking.

“Talking like that may one day result in your demise.” He warns with sugar on his tongue. It turns bittersweet when swallowed down his throat. Dandelions crushed in his palm as his feet scrape against cement. His chest protrudes, eyes wavering. He remembers emerald forests; remembers his cunning Papa and little boys used as blades. He learned to feast and carnage, drinking from red waterfalls. His skeleton longs to be buried in the soil of Neverland. Let his aching bones find solace.

He smiles, stark crimson and ugly. Wrong. “Such a shame it would be for someone so pretty to die. That just can’t be. Where I come from, there are no women in sight.” The blood of an untamed beast is sinking inside veins screaming with desire. His skin tightens, eyes lined with dust and ash. His tongue brushes his lips, feather-light. “I won’t kill you, not unless I get to enjoy you first.”

//

Body heaving in anger, his throat rumbled, a snarl attached to his lips. Belle looked startled. He could detect fear in her eyes for the first time in his presence, focusing on it the way one does with their prey. She was ripe for the taking, now that she finally opened her eyes to his true nature. She had underestimated him, not having noticed the monster laying in her bed all this time. He had bided his time, waiting patiently to take what he was owed. He wouldn’t let her escape and leave him like she had done before. Not this time. He would make her belong to him. She would never leave him unsatisfied again, not if he could help it.

He longs for the crunch of bone. He wants to claw at the hesitance in her eyes. She chooses now to be wary of him? He want to dig into her neck until the sticky taste of pierced skin blooms inside his mouth. He’s thrumming with the need of it. On edge, when she steps backwards he only tenses further with her in his sights, mouth wet with hunger.

He’s ready to rip into her throat. He aches to tear at her flesh until his lips are bloody.

But to truly enjoy this, he needs to hear her beg, sweet and afraid. Then and only then, can he leave her mutilated and bleeding, torn flesh exposing bone to the night air. He can imagine her looking destroyed and forgotten in his mind’s eye.

Barren _,_ split-open and smashed into pieces; just like him.

He lifts a hand to close around her throat and squeezes hard.  

“You’re a good fuck, at least,” he says as she struggles to breathe, gurgling. Adrenaline and grief war in him, pulling his attention away from his anger. He slams her to the ground, sinking down to lay against her, tired and aching.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t used me. You mocked me and laughed at me when I wanted to be with you. I wasn’t good enough for you. I wanted someone to keep me company. I chose _you_ ,” he spits at her face. “But you didn’t want to stay with me. You didn’t care if I was lonely or lost. You didn’t care about me, you fucking bitch.” He’s yelling now, trying to drown out the reverberating pain with his voice.

He uses his left hand to twist Belle’s wrist until the bones snap under the pressure. Smiling when she cries out, carnal lust stirs in him. He wants this to hurt, for her to die screaming in agony.

But he’s not going to fuck her yet. Even though he wants to, she doesn’t deserve his cock while she’s alive to feel it.

He grins when unzipping his jeans makes her squirm away from him. “Beg, say you want me,” he tells her, watching as her eyes plead with him to stop. She chokes on her sobs as he tightens his fingers around her throat. “Say it,” he growls. Still, she says nothing. He chokes her and chokes her and chokes her until she goes limp and stops breathing. When he lets go Belle’s throat is lined with bruises.

Finally, he pushes inside. She’s dry and tighter than normal, but the roughness and filthiness of it makes him burn. He starts thrusting, pressing her into the ground with the strength of his hips.

He kisses her, biting down on the flesh of her lips until he draws blood and licking into her mouth. Driving in her, he lets her sticky hole and soft plaint body throw him over the edge. He comes buried inside her. Groaning into her neck, he notices how cold her skin’s gotten, the warmth leaving her body in death.

When his cock pulls out of her slick with blood, he ignores the mess of blood staining him and dripping from Belle’s body.

He leaves his latest victim behind more determined than ever to return to Neverland. Storybrooke would never be his home.

It’s not enough. He would never be enough.


End file.
